


Extraordinary

by queenoftrivia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Morse Code, One Shot, Sherlock Plays the Violin, johnlock one shot, they're so perfect for each other i cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7378423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenoftrivia/pseuds/queenoftrivia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's deduced that John's going to Italy to buy him a violin. Even the greatest detective alive makes a few mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inevitably_johnlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitably_johnlocked/gifts).



> This is what Sherlock plays for two and a half hours halfway through the fic, if you're interested: http://listenonrepeat.com/watch/?v=geuipnhGEiA#VIVALDI_S_FOUR_SEASONS_SUMMER%2C_Mvt._3_Presto%2C_VIOLIN_SOLO%2C_Eboyinc_Sound_Sample%2C_English_Violin
> 
> Thank you to inevitably_johnlocked (inevitably-johnlocked on tumblr) for helping me out with grammar n stuff :D
> 
> Also, yes, Morse code. I've told you what it is... but are you listening?

‘Off to Italy to buy me a violin?’ Sherlock asked as John walked into the kitchen, where the consulting detective was busying himself with something under his microscope. John barely batted an eyelash at the remark, despite the fact that he hadn’t mentioned a word of a trip or violin to Sherlock.

‘And how could you possibly know that?’ he countered with a grin as he began making himself coffee. The question would have been sarcastic, save for the fact that John was just as curious of Sherlock’s methods now as he had been so many years ago.

‘Well,’ Sherlock began, not moving from his post at the microscope, ‘there’s €4,000 in your wallet, which you carelessly left on the kitchen table. That both suggests international travel  _ and _ narrows down possible destinations  _ and also _ gives a bit of a reason as to why you haven’t been ordering takeout at all for the past month, because you’ve been saving up. You were packing only a night and a day’s worth of clothing last night while you thought I was sleeping, so the trip isn’t to visit someone. There were tickets to Italy in your other coat pocket; one for this morning, one for tomorrow evening. I also destroyed my violin a month ago, coinciding with when you stopped ordering takeout, and you knew I’d be needing a new one. I’ve never told you the specifics of what I prefer in a violin, but Mycroft knows, and you’ve been getting texts from him mentioning everything from locations of Italian violin dealers to price tags on specific violins. The price range of the violins was just under €4,000, which also happens to be the price range of a professional violin. There’s plenty of other factors which confirm it, but it’s clear you’re going to Italy to buy a violin.’ He adjusted the focus on the microscope.

John chuckled. ‘You still amaze me, Sherlock Holmes,’ he said as he stepped over to where the man in question sat and planted a kiss on his mop of black curls. Sherlock beamed triumphantly, still not moving from his spot.

John looked down at his watch, his eyebrows flying up when he realized that his flight was in a mere hour. Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps as he ran to the bedroom to get his bag and returned to press a kiss into Sherlock’s temple.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he added quickly, rushing out the door. Sherlock’s face relaxed, a small smile still playing upon it. One of the strings on his beloved violin had suddenly snapped as he had been frustratedly plucking the strings in the midst of a trying case; it had struck him in the face, startled him and made him drop the instrument on the ground. It had cracked irreparably, much to Sherlock’s dismay. A new violin was essential. And Sherlock could tell that John was already missing the music that would frequently sound through the flat.

No matter. He’d be getting a new one tomorrow evening, in any case. In the meantime, he would just have to busy himself with the bacteria underneath his microscope.

. -..- - .-. .- --- .-. -.. .. -. .- .-. -.--

**_John. Hurry up. SH_ **

_ Sherlock 2:30 PM _

**_Can’t. You know I can’t. Three hours, ok? I’m boarding soon._ **

_ John 2:31 PM _

**_Fine. SH_ **

_ Sherlock 2:31 PM _

**_Lestrade presented a 2. I’m going. SH_ **

_ Sherlock 2:39 PM _

**_I thought there was a bylaw saying you don’t go out for less than a seven._ **

_ John 2:40 PM _

**_Also, a 2? Are you sure you’re okay?_ **

_ John 2:41 PM _

**_That’s when you’re with me. Your being away has caused major logical damage. SH_ **

_ Sherlock 2:42 PM _

**_That’s comforting. Still expect you home for dinner, love._ **

_ John 2:43 PM _

 

Of course, Sherlock Holmes solved the ‘case’ within two minutes of his presence at the crime scene. It was simple, he said, before spewing out the results at a thousand kilometres per second, along with a few insults pointed at the stupidity of Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard. (And, honestly, the jewel was literally right under their feet. Didn’t they feel that the ground underneath them was a lot more hollow than it needed to be?) After all, the case was only a two. Sherlock wasn’t even sure why he bothered.

No, he knew why. He was bored. His life felt shockingly empty without John by his side.

It really couldn’t be helped. John was still in Italy, buying Sherlock an expensive violin.

Stepping through the black front door a little past 3 in the afternoon, Sherlock had barely closed the door before Mrs. Hudson rushed out of her own home to greet the consulting detective.

‘How did the case go?’ she asked, the brightness in her voice nearly annoying. Clearly, she was looking forward to something happening that night. One quick glance confirmed it; Mrs. Hudson was ready for a date.

‘It could hardly be called a case,’ Sherlock muttered as he removed his Belstaff and hung it in its place by the door. ‘Enjoy your outing,’ he called somewhat quietly as he began leaping up the steps two at a time to get away.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Sherlock assured, louder this time.

‘Oh! You know, Mycroft was just here,’ Mrs. Hudson suddenly announced, stopping him in his tracks. ‘He wanted me to-’

‘Mycroft?’ Sherlock cut his landlady off, blinking, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘What on earth could Mycroft want with me  _ now?’ _ he wondered, staring up the stairs with a scowl on his face.

Mrs. Hudson tutted. ‘You really shouldn’t cut your landlady off like that,’ she scolded before continuing, walking up the stairs past Sherlock. ‘Mycroft just dropped something off, and had to rush back to whatever he was doing. I’m honestly not exactly sure why he was here, dear, but he was in and out, barely a word.’

‘Do you know what he left behind?’ Sherlock asked as he followed Mrs. Hudson to 221b. 

‘Not a clue,’ she replied and held the door open. ‘By the way, I’m leaving for-’

‘A date, I’m aware,’ Sherlock said blandly, looking around the flat for anything of interest. Nothing immediately obvious.

‘It’s not a  _ date!’ _ the landlady retorted.

‘No,’ Sherlock admitted with a nod. ‘But you want it to be.’ He stepped inside the flat, not really looking at anything around him just yet. He needed Mrs. Hudson away before he could concentrate.

‘Sherlock!’ Mrs. Hudson sounded exasperated. (As if that was an oddity.) Sherlock just barely let the corner of his mouth turn up, out of his landlady’s sight, then sighed as he turned back to her.

‘When?’ he asked, making himself sound equally exasperated.

‘At five.’

‘Good, that gives me time to finish an experiment. Now, there’s been a disturbance in my sitting room, and I would like to investigate it. Good afternoon,’ Sherlock said, slamming the door in Mrs. Hudson’s face. John would probably make him apologise for that later. He spun around on his heels, his keen, sharp eyes quickly circling around the room, listing the features around him: cushions on the sofa, horrid wallpaper on the walls, scattered papers on the tables, skull and letters and  _ that hat _ on the mantlepiece, Union Jack pillow on John’s armchair, violin and bow on his own chair. So far, nothing of interest-

Hold on. That wasn’t his broken violin. That was his bow, but that wasn’t his violin. This violin was new.

Was John back from his trip already? No, impossible. How did the violin get from him to Mycroft? Was the violin story a ruse? It couldn’t have been. Was there a misunderstanding? Was he to get two new violins? That would be awkward for all three parties.

Sherlock lifted the instrument up and studied it. The wood was positively exquisite; spruce for the soundboard, maple for the back, neck, and sides, ebony for the fingerboard, tailpiece, and tuning pegs, all being of surprisingly high quality. The spruce had been harvested from a cold, high altitude, which made the soundboard stronger and more resonant. The separate pieces had dried for at least thirty years, making the whole instrument more durable. A thin coat of varnish over the fiery brown-red wood finished off the violin perfectly and made the whole thing  _ gorgeous. _

Sherlock tuned it. He took the bow from his chair, breathed in, and began playing.

Immediately, Vivaldi sprung from the previously silent strings. As Sherlock played, his face changed from one of cold, quick calculations to something much more passionate, less forced and more - whether he cared to admit it or not - emotional. He had been told by many that he played as if the violin was a mere extension of his body, and the statement proved truthful; the tune he produced was high in energy, full of tension, and his face portrayed the same emotion that the notes did. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. His lips quivered with fervor. His back flexed, his body leaning down around the instrument when the notes went lower, straightening and letting the instrument jut out against his silhouette when they rose.

He played until his fingers felt tired, and then he played some more. He played so excitedly that when he the music finally ceased, John was standing in the doorway, adoration clearly written on his features.

‘Amazing!’ he exclaimed, his beaming features contagious. Sherlock let a genuine smile reveal itself on his lips, and bowed slightly, the hand holding his bow moving to his back as he bowed. A new tune played in the back of his head; this one was more languid, more relaxed, more… happy. John would probably call it romantic. It was a waltz, after all.

When he looked up again, John had stepped closer, and Sherlock put the violin down. John took one of his hands in both of his and pressed a delicate kiss into one of the knuckles.

‘How did I ever get stuck with you?’ John mused, his hand letting go of Sherlock’s and moving up to rest in the dark curls on his head, his thumb stroking the ever-present folds next to his eyes. 

‘No idea,’ Sherlock murmured in reply, leaning into John’s gentle touch, slowly relaxing, a smile still dancing on his face.

After a few seconds, John’s hand moved away, and Sherlock straightened. John stepped back, inviting Sherlock to do what he did best: observe.

‘You’re hiding something,’ Sherlock began, and John’s praising look spurred him on. ‘You don’t want to admit it, but you’re nervous about it. The violin story was good; you had me going for quite a while there. There’s obviously something else you’re trying to keep quiet underneath that. The violin story was partly true; you’ve been saving up for something, but it wasn’t the violin. Mycroft was the one who dropped off the violin, and is the only person who knows what I like in a violin, so obviously he was the one who bought it. But he helped with the other thing, knew I would be looking at your texts at some point and decided to throw a red herring at me. Since he was the one who bought the violin, you didn’t need to know what he was texting you, which means that either you received texts from him about the other thing and promptly deleted them, or you physically met with him. The latter is more likely; my brother has always been partial to meetings rather than texts, more secure. You discussed a plan with him, most likely one started by him. But why? What could you be hiding? Something important, obviously. Something you want to hide from me, and only me. So you want to surprise me-’

Keys jangled faintly, and the black front door creaked open. Sherlock blinked. The strings fell silent, and his arms fell at his sides. His eyebrows were still furrowed, but now they told of confusion rather than concentration.

He shook his head, his curls bouncing with the movement.  _ Back to reality. _ He plopped himself down on his black armchair, letting his bow and violin lean on the armrest.

As soon as John opened the door to the flat, Sherlock’s eyes scanned his  irresistible body and swallowed every single piece of data he could collect.

_ Apprehensive / Nervous / Phoned sister twice / Hiding something / Took a cab from Heathrow / Didn’t sleep well last night / Slept on the plane / Definitely hiding something / Attracted to me / Smarter than he looks / Confused / Had coffee / No breakfast / Had lunch / Crowbar in trousers (always prepared, plus it’s sexy) (shut up) / Wallet, gloves, keys in front left pocket / Small box in front right pocket / Trying to impress me (it’s working) (shut U-) _

‘Sherlock?’

Sherlock blinked twice to clear his mind. ‘Hm?’ he replied distractedly, his eyes now less concerned with observing and more concerned with looking.

John moved forward and sat in his armchair. He took a deep breath. He took several deep breaths.

‘There’s something-’ he eventually tried, slipping a simple navy velvet box out of his pocket and nervously turning it around in his hands. 

Sherlock stared. And stared. And stared some more.

John noticed that he had been doing a lot of staring lately. It always had something to do with John. He’d be lying if he wasn’t used to it by now. It was still a bit unnerving, but this was Sherlock; practically  _ everything _ was a bit unnerving.

In all honesty, John was thankful for the silence. It gave him time to actually collect his thoughts.

He sat in front of Sherlock for a full two minutes before realizing he hadn’t even asked the big question.

He opened the box, letting the sunlight hit the moon-like band. The ring was mostly made of polished tungsten. A band of brushed silver ran around the center, and a row of small black diamonds sparkled in the silver. It was dramatic, but just simple enough so it wouldn’t be too obvious.

John took the ring out of its box and let the light hit the engraving inside. The dots and dashes called back to when they had first met, the moment before John found out that he was the first to ever compliment this incredible, amazing man sitting in front of him.

When John looked back up, Sherlock was still staring at the ring, his mouth ever so slightly open. Hope and doubt suddenly began fighting desperately for the top spot in John’s heart, nearly tearing it apart.

‘Do you mind if I...?’ Sherlock suddenly asked, leaning forward just enough so that John could reach his outstretched hand.

‘N-no, course not, here,’ John thankfully managed, dropping the slightly warmed loop into Sherlock’s palm.

He watched Sherlock as he looked at the ring, his heart in his throat, his pulse resonating through his entire body, making the dull  _ da-dum, da-dum  _ in his ears so much more intense. He watched the detective’s delicate hands turn the ring to look at the engraving on the inside, and butterflies erupted in his stomach when he saw the sparkle of recognition in Sherlock’s eyes.

God, he felt like a child.

Sherlock held the ring out to John again, and doubt began looking like a serious contender for the top spot in John’s heart. Fear was at a close second.

‘Do the honors?’ Sherlock clarified softly, offering his left hand, and John’s anxious expression melted away, revealing what could only be described as relief and love. He took the ring from Sherlock and knelt in front of him, sliding the band onto his ring finger. It was a perfect fit.

John stood up and looked into Sherlock’s shining eyes, still holding his fiancé’s (God, he was going to have to get used to that) hand, and his left hand found its way to Sherlock’s curls, his thumb stroking just next to his eye, just as he had in Sherlock’s mind not an hour before. He bent down until his forehead touched Sherlock’s, and the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly when he felt Sherlock’s other hand at his waist.

‘You’re completely and utterly insufferable,’ Sherlock said decidedly, laughter bubbling up deep within, and John giggled breathlessly. ‘First you go to my brother for help, then agree to trick me into thinking you’re buying me a violin. Shame on you, John Watson,’ he teased, his own laugh joining John’s outburst of laughter.

‘Well, you have to admit, it did make for a pretty good surprise,’ John managed in between giggles as he shifted to sit in Sherlock’s lap, his right arm reaching around to hold Sherlock’s back. 

‘Yes, it did,’ Sherlock admitted, both hands at John’s waist, his smile wide with laughter.

‘C’mere, you,’ John breathed, his eyes fluttering shut, his breath tickling Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock obliged, his own eyes closing as they grinned into their kiss. He felt John shift his hand to his neck, and felt him tapping his jaw, in the same pattern that was engraved on the ring now on his finger, and his heart skipped a beat. He could only hope that John knew he felt the same way about him.

. -..- - .-. .- --- .-. -.. .. -. .- .-. -.--

**Author's Note:**

> If haven't figured it out yet, the engraving is the line of dots and dashes. If you're wondering what it means, look at the title.


End file.
